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August 24, 2003
mark thomas About an hour after the blackout hit I found myself standing in Queensboro Plaza at the base of the 59th Street Bridge. I had not intended to make myself useful, but as the only person around with a radio I became a magnet for people who didn’t know what was happening. They would stop and lean toward me to hear the news, or if they asked me what was happening I would deliver the executive summary. I explained what I knew, and if the person who asked appeared to have a sense of humor I would try to say something funny, like “Welcome to Baghdad!” or “There appears to have been a clerical error.” Ha ha. Ha. There was a period of about 10 minutes during which I and my friend thought it was terrorism. And now, in 2003, you don’t sound like such a lunatic for contemplating the unimaginable. Fearing terrorism is not as far-fetched as if this happened on August 14, 2001, but I still regret exhibiting a personality trait that I have come to detest: Instant Expert Syndrome. IES was everywhere after September 11. People who’d never even heard of Afghanistan suddenly became authorities on terrorism and obscure matters of Middle East policy, and they used their newfound expertise to talk you into a bored, pulverized stupor. My manifestation of IES was not so boorish, and all things considered not unreasonable. A radio announcer said something that made it sound like all of North America had lost electricity, and then in a “related story” tone of voice she added that a major Al-Qaida chief had been captured in Thailand and the White House was on top of the situation. Minutes later it was announced that lights were out in major cities through the northeast, and that a huge plume of black smoke was seen belching out of the ConEdison building on 14th Street in Manhattan. I turned to my friend and said “It must be terrorism.” How the hell did I know? You might rightly ask. I had no authority or knowledge with which to analyze the situation, but I did and I feel like an asshole for it. At any rate, for about 10 minutes that day the fear was real, and it was a bad, bad feeling. While still thinking the problem was across the continent I called my mother in Florida to see if she was OK. I would have been unable to make that call even 10 minutes later, as my cell phone and land-line both went useless and even most payphones appeared to be dead. When Mayor Bloomberg explained what happened, that the city’s power system did what it was supposed to do, to me the seriousness of the situation almost completely evaporated. I compared it to a snow day where everyone takes the day off work, and noticed when Mayor Bloomberg used the same analogy several minutes later. Standing at the 59th Street bridge watching the ever-growing mass of humanity flow past was an excellent place to stand. Almost everyone was laughing and smiling and I, having a radio and (presumably) knowledge of what was happening, got to chat with dozens of random people not just about the status of things but about how to get around Queens by walking – this is now an area of expertise for me thanks to long, long days spent walking 15 to 20 miles at a stretch through Long Island City, Astoria, Sunnyside, Corona, Jackson Heights, and everywhere else. One guy, falling down drunk in the middle of the day, was sober enough to reminisce about the 1977 blackout when he lived in Manhattan. Another guy asked for directions to Woodside, Queens. Someone else said he had to walk all the way to Bayside. A jazz musician and I got into a lengthy conversation about my so-cool cell phone (a Handspring Treo). Another guy described climbing out of the #7 train stuck in the underwater tunnel between Manhattan and Queens. In response to something Mayor Bloomberg said on the radio about “orderly evacuations” from stalled subways, this guy said people really freaked out down there and the evacuation was anything but orderly. But all got out safely. Someone on the radio described driving through the Lincoln Tunnel when the lights went out and thinking “So this is how it ends,” and he waited for the water of the Hudson River to come crashing in. My friend and I stood by the bridge for over an hour before walking around Long Island City and adjourning to a hipster pub called Tupelo. Pubs and bars were among the very few places open that night, and from what I’ve heard they are evidently the only businesses that didn’t triple their prices. As darkness fell I decided to stash my camera and cash here at the apartment. I thought I might get some pictures of the rust-colored moon and the astonishingly bright stars and the dark, DARK skyline of Manhattan. Instead, I decided to experience the night without letting my camera intercept the reality before it got to me. I also didn’t want to lose the camera. A man standing on the corner right outside my apartment grabbed me by the arm and, in broken English, said “It’s not coming back. The lights are never coming back.” He smiled, seemingly at peace with his pronouncement. I said “They’re already back on in Kew Gardens. Give it until the morning.” He shook his head, dismissing my statement. Still smiling, he said “I wish you the best, my friend.” We shook hands. (Evidently his lights had gone out long ago.) I walked and walked and walked as the darkness accumulated. There is no need for hyperbole when one word is good enough: it was DARK. The streets were not crowded or panicked. The news on the radio had settled into repeated sound bites from politicians, newscasters talking about themselves and their coverage of the event, and useless person-on-the-street accounts. I spent several hours at a pub that I frequent. I chose that place because I recognize many of the regulars, but when I got in there the place was as crowded as I’ve ever seen it and I did not recognize one single person. Even the bartenders were strangers – turns out they were freelancers. I was promptly propositioned by a woman I found to be painfully beautiful. “You look so sad. Do you need company? I’m a nurse.” People who know me will not be surprised to learn that I get the “You look so sad” line very frequently. But it usually comes from women 25 or 30 years older than me, and they never look anything like this woman. The nurse was incoherently drunk, and her date or boyfriend or whatever looked willing and ready to kick my ass if I didn’t make her go away. I did, and moments later got into an hour-long conversation with a Greek waiter. His gambling expertise was limitless, or so he said, and he imparted to me his lifetime of blackjack and poker strategies. All of that information left my mind as soon it went in, but the conversation was fun and the atmosphere in the place had a distinct end-times feel. A group of woman at the far end of the bar sang, more like screamed any song they could think of that was about New York City. For some reason when they ran out of New York songs they sang Abba songs. At some point which I don’t remember someone passed me a joint. As the tiny number of people who have done drugs with me will probably report, I do not drugs well at all. Even a tiny gasp of pot can screw me up for days. I don’t know what it was or how much I took but between that and eating possibly rancid salami from my refrigerator I was sick sick sick for most of the next week. Boo hoo. I left the pub and wandered through the streets. The darkness fascinated me. Deep, dark and silent -- something you’d never expect to see throughout New York, or any other big city. I walked right up the middle of 6-lane streets, and somewhere underneath the elevated subway track I felt lost. I decided to lie down on the steps of the subway station and sleep. I may have slept for a half hour or so, but when I woke up I was interested to see the machinations of a livery cab driver who had parked his car about 10 feet in front of me. He looked at himself in the mirror; applied some kind of lip balm to his mouth; pried his eyes open wide in search of bloodshot veins; picked his nose in a grand, full-finger, Jeff Weaver*-style nosepick; smiled at himself in the mirror for a solid 10 seconds; started pounding on the steering wheel. Did he know I was watching? I don’t think he knew my eyes were open, but he saw me there and, seeing me sleeping, I think he felt alone. The glimpse into this episode of unpretentious candor interested me more than sleeping outside on the subway station steps. For some reason it made me feel less lost. I stood up and ran home. The power was still out at 5am when I went to sleep, but I woke up at 8:30 and it was back. I then slept until 2pm, but could have slept until the next day for as baked as my brain felt.
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